


Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [41]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crowley Loves Humanity (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Baggage, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Hopeful Ending, Le Morte D'Arthur - Freeform, Legends, Sorry guys, War, this goes from funny to sad Real fast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21746614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Crowley would just like to start out by saying that this?Not his fault.Or, well.Mostly not his fault.Maybe 25% his fault. Maybe. Definitely not much more than that. Definitely not more than 30% his fault.Mostly because if that stupid knight hadn’t stepped on his bloody tail he wouldn’t have had to bite him. And then the knight wouldn’t have tried to kill him. And then no one would have seen his unsheathed sword and decided that, oh, yes, it was time to kill a hundred thousand people.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Another 51 [41]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1414117
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus

**Author's Note:**

> we read Le Morte D'Arthur in class and i had a Lot Of Ideas

Crowley would just like to start out by saying that this?

Not his fault.

Or, well.

_ Mostly  _ not his fault.

Maybe 25% his fault.  _ Maybe _ . Definitely not much more than that.  _ Definitely  _ not more than 30% his fault.

Mostly because if that  _ stupid _ knight hadn’t stepped on his  _ bloody _ tail he wouldn’t have had to bite him. And then the knight wouldn’t have tried to kill him. And then no one would have seen his unsheathed sword and decided that, oh, yes, it was time to  _ kill a hundred thousand people _ .

So.

_ Not  _ Crowley’s fault.

But, either way, he’d received a commendation from The Lower Downs about it, which meant they’d be off his back for  _ at least _ a century, and Crowley wasn’t going to complain.

Besides, what did  _ he  _ care if people had gone and—and—

_ The spray of blood as the man on Crowley’s right caught a crossbow bolt through the neck, the screams as men fell around him, the way his feet slid through the mix of blood and dirt on the battlefield, the stench of death in the air _ —

They were just  _ people _ . They would’ve died soon anyway.

That’s what humans did. Mayflies, the lot of them, here for a minute before— _ poof _ .

They  _ all died _ .

Crowley watched, crouching behind a mound of corpses, as Arthur faced his son, spear raised.

What did it matter,  _ what did it matter _ , they were all insects, all dust, all—

A crack.

A tear.

A gasp and a sickening  _ squelch _ .

And Mordred stepped forward, forward, forward, powered by a rage Crowley wished he didn’t understand, looking at his maker, his creator, who’d shoved a  _ spear _ through his  _ gut _ , and he hoisted his sword and—

Crowley had never been a fighter. He—that wasn’t his  _ role _ . He spun stardust, he weaved nebulae and sewed together the fabric of the cosmos, naming each star as he hung them in the sky.

Over the millennia, he’d learned to hold a sword. He’d gotten used to the weight of a blade in his hand. He knew what it felt like to swing it down with all the force in his bones, to watch it slash and pierce and cut and kill.

He knew what it felt like.

He watched as Mordred fell, eyes unblinking, unseeing, open and glazed, full of tears he’d never shed.

Arthur fell at his side a moment later, father meeting son in the muck and the dirt.

Across the field, three knights stood, running to their king’s side.

Aziraphale did not go as swiftly as the others.

Later, later, they would talk about it. The two of them, sitting in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop, splitting a bottle of wine.

Aziraphale had a copy of it, of the book, a first edition, barely held together, the paper threatening to crumble to ash with every careful turn of the pages.

“I was there, that day,” the angel said, gesturing to where  _ Le Morte D’Arthur _ sat on its shelf. “Nasty business. Be glad you missed it.”

“Were you there when the king died?” Crowley asked, although he knew the answer already.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said softly. “It was—not quite as dramatic as Malory would have you believe. Hard to do that much talking when someone’s stuck a sword through your brain, I’m afraid. He passed before we got him to the chapel.”

“A shame.”

“Yes, a shame indeed.”

A shame for the king, and a shame for everyone else, for all the people who had  _ believed _ , whether in Arthur or in Mordred or in any other great hero.

History was marked with great battles and bloody fields.

Crowley hated every one of them.

_ It wasn’t your fault _ , he told himself on the late nights when he had trouble drifting off to sleep.  _ It wasn’t your fault _ .

_ They were mayflies. _

_ They were dust. _

_ Even the heroes die _ .

“Six thousand years and hardly any difference,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley say in his eyes that he knew. That he  _ understood. _

Crowley raised his glass, his eyes lingering on the old, fragile book on the shelf.

Aziraphale raised his own.

They drank.

Sleep came easier that night.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think!!!


End file.
